I know a man insistent that the drapes are maroon, not fuchsia. The type a sunset makes speechless. This arrow’s vector’s desire and the object’s suspended. Gnosis being we don’t listen to because we can’t. I know a little girl who is anxious and quiet. She draws pictures to ease her nerves. “This is my daddy,” the portrait she held up for me. Every shade of green’s so articulate. “I hope he likes it.” I know a father and daughter distanced by their perpetual effort to find the right words for one another. Fiction’s their lens to make sense of their evidence. “Daddy, may I borrow this book?” All’s sepia from our ennuying longing. I just want a way to say it. My inclination to loathe we jades me. I need rest; let me rest in peace.